I cried at work last week. Eh. I would not call it a high point of my time here on earth, but life didn't end or anything. Nobody died from it. No animals were harmed. Don't get me wrong, I was mortified, but in the grand scheme of things—in the long stretch of a whole lifetime of actions and accidents and choices and consequences—it was a pretty insignificant event. It happened right at the end of the day, this pressure I could feel building up inside of me all week, rising in my chest right up to here until finally something just snapped. A huge wall of stress and anxiety broke wide open, and I can't think of a thing in the world that would have stopped me from crying at that moment. Your body will usually tell you what it needs even if your brain won't. Your brain is way dumber than your body, IMHO. FYI. LOL. TBD. (It's true, though: most of the time your brain is a filthy goddamn liar.)
Anyway, I ended up crying for a long time. It was a real epic jag, if you will. I just couldn't think of a way to make it stop. I didn't want to get on the subway so I walked home instead, and the amazing thing about New York City is that you can walk 10 blocks through Midtown and 20 blocks through Central Park during rush hour, sobbing the whole way, and not one person will bat an eyeball at you. Not a single soul will find it strange. I thought about it while I was walking—where can a person go to cry alone in this city if they happen to not be in their own apartment at the time?—and the answer is nowhere and everywhere. This is both tragic and comforting, one of those things the guidebooks fail to mention. When I got home I took a hot bath and made pizza and watched a couple episodes of The Big Bang Theory and at some point realized I was plumb cried out. There was no crying left to be had. I had kissed the crying goodbye. Adios, tears. Sayonara, snot.
On Saturday I went to a party to celebrate a wedding (which happened in June) and on Sunday morning at the farmer's market I bought this pumpkin. It's the perfect wee Snuggery size and I love it so much. I practically skipped home with it, like Charlie Brown with his Xmas tree. Thank god for farmers, I guess. The pumpkin's name is Hamm (for Jon Hamm). He may be an Emmy winner, but I'll still have to chuck him eventually.